


When It's Over

by AnxiousOddish



Category: Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Apotheosis (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slime, Trauma, post-cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousOddish/pseuds/AnxiousOddish
Summary: Everyone in Hatchetfield has their own way of coping with everything that happened, and Paul understands that. Everyone is okay, really. Paul and Emma are doing just fine.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 20
Kudos: 156





	When It's Over

Hatchetfield wasn’t exactly known for being a strong, tight-knit community. If someone was struggling, it was their problem. Everyone has their own issues, why exert effort into helping others? Paul thought maybe it’d be different when everyone had the same issue. The same trauma. He had hope for his hometown. Emma scoffed when he told her that he’d expected something to come of it. She knew better. It was Hatchetfield, the same one she’d always known. 

A single support group had sprung up. Some kind-hearted soul trying to bring people together after everything that had happened. Paul and Emma passed the fliers from time to time a couple of weeks before the first meeting. They seemed to disappear. Paul was sure there’d been one on the window of Beanie’s, Emma said she couldn’t recall. What did it matter? There wasn’t one now. Paul couldn’t remember what the date was supposed to be. Not like he’d go, anyway. Silly, to expect more of Hatchetfield when he was no better than anyone else. Paul was a Hatchetfield resident, born and bred. If anyone went to the group, he didn’t hear about it.

It was fine, he thought. A tearful sharing of experiences, of grief, wasn’t Hatchetfield’s style! They had their ways. Nods on the sidewalk between people who should have been strangers, but now shared a memory, a tune they could never quite get out of their heads. The steps to a dance they would never perform again. The collective agreement that they could do without music for the time being. The Hatchetfield news was safe. It took some getting used to, hearing the morning news followed by silence and dissonant static. That static seemed to follow everyone. The absence of music, the refusal to talk about it. 

Beanie’s got rid of the bell on the door. Of course, now whenever people came in for their coffee the employees jumped. Everyone was jumpy, these days. Any unexpected noise was startling, and it was common to apologize for it. Paul was almost used to those rapid turns, the frantic eyes scanning for danger before settling as they saw it was just him. He could almost tune it out. 

The streets were silent. Hurried footsteps as everyone followed their routines echoed against the buildings, too casual discussions merely whispers carried on the wind. Paul understood. He understood the need to keep things quiet. The voices in his head were loud enough as it was. Words to songs he shouldn’t know. A constant beat tapping against the inside of his skull, reverberating down his spine. Colonel Schaffer said that was fine. It’d go away, someday, it was just memory. His body and mind had been through hell, it was just trying to recover. He wasn’t alone, she said. 

But wasn’t he? Emma didn’t want to talk about it. He’d tried to, leaning against the wall as she absentmindedly searched through the fridge. Paul didn’t know why, they’d just eaten. She seemed to be looking for something. Something to do, maybe. Paul had spent ages running through the speech in his mind, mumbling them in the shower, making sure he could get a true discussion going without breaking down. It was all for nothing. The words ran together, gelling and sticking in his throat as he watched Emma pull out a jar, reading the label and absorbing none of it, her fingers shaking slightly. Paul took a deep breath. _I want to talk about what happened,_ he’d say. ~~I want to talk about what I did to you.~~ _I want to talk about the things we saw. The silence around us and the cacophony in our heads._ ~~I hurt you. How can you stand to look at me?~~ _I want to talk, and I want things to get better._ He had so much to say. He just had to say it. He could feel every unspoken word on the tip of his tongue. Burning, aching in his throat. He just had to let them out. 

“Emma, I’m sorry.” 

Emma froze, and Paul’s blood turned to ice. He hadn’t meant to speak exactly those words, that phrase. It was just that damn song, the one that followed him wherever he went. He opened his mouth to correct himself, say what he meant to. Emma placed the jar on the counter, glass hitting so hard that Paul flinched. Her eyes were hollow, as she looked at him, a cold, blank stare that reminded him of radio static, of the swish of doors opening unannounced. 

Paul didn’t bring it up again. Emma certainly didn’t. They talked about safe topics. About work. About their pasts. They didn’t talk about it when Paul was startled awake at three in the morning by Emma’s sobbing, he just held her closer, pressing his eyes closed so tightly that it hurt. They didn’t talk about it when Emma shook him awake, Paul waking with a gasp, his lips dry as if he’d been talking for ages, the next lyric resting in his mouth. He just swallowed it down and squeezed her hand. They didn't talk about it.

This was recovery, perhaps. Hatchetfield wasn’t going to come together anytime soon, but the solemn nods were a group effort. The lack of acknowledgment was a sort of recognition in itself. Everyone was dealing with the same thing, Paul was sure. They’d be fine. They’d all move on. The tension in the air would dissipate.

It only seemed to get thicker day after day, but Paul was convinced it had to peak at some point. He didn’t know what that meant, what would happen if it did, but _anything_ had to be better than this. Day after day, pointedly ignoring the noises in their heads. Night after night, waking to moonlight pouring through the window and illuminating their pale, sweat-soaked faces. Paul got up, careful not to jostle Emma on the other side of the bed, though he knew she was awake. Always so careful not to jostle her. He’d come back to her soon, but his thoughts were a scrambled mess, tangled and knotted, and the longer he lay there, the louder they grew. The bathroom light hurt his eyes, leaving spots for him to squint away. Some cold water would help. Shock him awake, give his unfocused mind some clarity. 

Paul stiffened, looking down into the sink. The white porcelain was marred by a faint blue splatter. It was small, nothing more than a droplet. Paul shuddered. It was two in the morning, he was still half asleep. Paul turned on the faucet once more, watching it dilute into nothing, swirling down the drain. He closed his eyes and breathed, a deep inhale that did nothing to calm his nerves. There was nothing there. Opening his eyes again was a struggle, they wanted to stay closed. 

The drop was still there. The same spot, he was convinced it was the same size. It was supposed to be gone. Another drop took its place beside the first. Another. They spread like a cancer, one drop after another, dropping from his face, sliding over his lips, his chin, and Paul couldn’t breathe, couldn’t bear to look up and see what he dreaded. What would he see if he looked in the mirror? Cold, unrecognizable eyes, blue crusted in the corner of his mouth. Pale, lifeless skin. Blue stained teeth and lips stretched into a forced grin. An image that shouldn't be familiar, but would be, if he dared to look up and greet it. He wouldn't. He _couldn't_ make himself look.

Paul’s arm shot out to the tissues, grabbing at them frantically, more than he could possibly need and shoving them to his face. It was fine. It was just a nosebleed. He was asleep. He was hallucinating. Anything but this. His heart thundered in his ears, a beat so loud he was sure Emma would hear it. 

Emma.

He had to make it stop. There was nothing wrong. He wouldn't allow anything to be wrong.

In his panic, Paul's gaze flicked up towards his reflection, and he cried out into the mass of tissues at his nose. His eyes were flooding with blue fluid, pooling at the corners, slowly trailing down his cheeks. Faster and faster, a steady stream to drip into the sink and soak into the wad of tissues. It wasn’t enough, he couldn’t stop it, he was helpless and alone and he couldn’t see through the blue clouding his vision as he stumbled back, letting the thoroughly soaked tissues fall to the ground. His back hit the wall hard, he’d underestimated how small the room was. Paul slid down to the floor, and he was sure if he looked, he’d see a trail. A handprint, a splatter on the floor. He was contaminated, everything he touched would leave evidence of what he'd become. What he'd always been.

He couldn’t hide his sobs anymore, and he knew it was seeping out of him faster the more he cried. Shudders wracked his body, as he repeatedly wiped the slime off of his face with his bare hands, feeling it slip between his trembling fingers. What was the point in trying to soak it up? It would never stop. Paul choked as it filled up his throat, gasping for breath. His lungs were on fire, sucking in air that didn’t exist, pulling in more and more of the poisonous unearthly fluid. It soaked through his clothes, flowing freely over his lips, out of his ears. The lights were still blinding, and Paul pulled himself into a ball in the corner, pressing his face into his knees so hard it hurt, still trying to breathe, to block out the world around him.

He didn’t know how long he was there, it felt like an eternity, but the second he felt a hand rest on his cheek he gasped, jerking back, knocking his head on the wall. Emma dropped her hand, and Paul was grateful, though he missed the warmth the second her comforting fingers left his skin. She shouldn’t touch him, he didn’t want to see her untainted hands splattered with blue. She needed to run. She wasn’t safe. He opened his mouth to express that, tell her to flee from him, but choked on another sob. It was still so thick in his throat. Emma caught his eyes, and her lip quivered. Yes, Paul thought. She could see what had become of him, maybe she’d have time to go before he lost control entirely. Maybe this time he wouldn't hurt her.

Emma didn’t leave. She didn’t jerk away in terror. Emma simply leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his tightly bound form, pressed her forehead onto his shoulder. Paul’s panic dissipated, though he knew he should be terrified. Why wasn’t she running? Why was she simply holding him, pulling him closer and closer? She was speaking, and Paul realized she must have been for a while. 

“We’re going to be okay, alright? We will be. We can get through this.” She sounded so sure of herself, her words strong, and Paul could feel his muscles relaxing, the stiffness seeping out of his body. His movements were nearly mechanical as he returned the affection, holding her nearly as tightly as she was holding him. She wasn't scared of him. Paul exhaled shakily. No, things weren’t okay. Not at all. They didn’t know how to begin setting things right again. But this could be a start. They could try. Paul held Emma close to him, taking in her warmth, her certainty. Not a drop fell from his lips as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Nothing stained her skin. Paul closed his eyes, letting the perfectly clear, perfectly _human_ tears run down his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out over at @anxiousoddish and @autistic-paul on tumblr if you want to yell at me for anything! Comments mean the world to me.


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